Rotten to the core, a sickness that festers within,
rotting me from the inside out, where darkness begins.
Each breath is a struggle, each moment a fight,
crumbling under the weight of my soul's wretched plight.
They love the me I've curated with care,
a persona crafted, a version so rare.
Admiring the façade, a picture meticulously spun,
unaware of the tainted truth of what I've become.
The darkness that consumes me, the stench of my being,
exists as a nightmare, a reality unseen.
No one sees the true me, the depths of my pain,
the parts I keep hidden like an unwavering stain.
They're drawn to the picture I've painstakingly drawn,
oblivious to the real me, so weary and worn.
They love the me I've constructed, the façade so precise,
unaware of the real me, a soul paying the price.
